what use these slender fingers,
uncallused and already wrinkling,
when idly they rest on the keys,
and speak in silence only
what use are these cold hands,
when they're not wrestling with the world,
wringing it for words to keep
and to preserve
what use my skin, my lips, my tongue,
when they're not singing all together
of the warmth of woman
and the laughing child
when idly i recline,
procrastinating,
bemoaning the shortness of these waning days,
what use then, tell me, are my hands?














Comments
about me
for someone who abhors any structure that constricts free movement,
I forget that if you're free to do anything
you'll probably do nothing.
thank you for reminding me, my good friend,
if I may be bold to call you one.
--
"My little old man and I fell out;
I'll tell you what 'twas all about,--
I had money and he had none,
And that's the way the noise begun."
Cheerz bud!
--
All truth is fiction.
Previous PageNext Page